


Life is Complicated

by Alvie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, Superhero Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6450115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvie/pseuds/Alvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a sad story, there are a lot of good laughs, ups and downs, but it's sad story at its heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is Complicated

**Author's Note:**

> Before I start, I'd like to properly thank some of the inspiration for this story. 
> 
> Though I met her by a less than pleasant comment, you, as I know your reading, challenged me to write something with a purpose. In this case, its to raise awareness for the The Muscular Dystrophy Association, specifically for SMA.  
> I'd also like to thank a few school friends
> 
> . I'm not a very... human.... person. As to say I don't really know much about relationships or love type feelings. I don't have a drive for it, but they do, and I, with or without them really knowing try my best to study and understand it better, largely because it's a huge element of a story, of the life of most people. This lunch time study, as well as all I can learn from other writers, is all I have to go by. I'm not sure how they want to me accredit them for their massive contribution to the later chapters, so I'll use nicknames that they'll understand.  
> My thanks Cydel, Wise Girl, The Candy Queen of Horror Stories, and Demosteseis, you all helped me understand the feelings that I'm incapable of possessing.

I guess it started when I was six, when I was even shorter than I am now, barley seeing over counters and swinging my legs from what seemed like massive second grade desks. It had always been clear that I was adopted; no secrets, no negativity and I didn’t look anything like them as they both clearly had roots in northern Europe. They made a point of telling me that I was born in Seoul, Korea. I didn't really care. To me they were my mom and dad, simple as that. Most days my mom would brush and braid my hair, telling me to pay attention because she wanted me to be good at it, though neither of us would commit to that. Then I'd head of to the bus stop with a backpack that always seemed to be bigger than me, and weighing a ton, but it was never more than some books, crayons and my lunch. I went to a private school with special classes for gifted students, but to me that meant just about nothing. 

On weekends, if they weren't tired or busy, we'd go do something fun. Just the three of us, no work calls allowed. On one weekend unlike any other, my dad and I headed out of one of our fun days; my mom couldn't make it this time. When I asked why over the phone, the answer came as a slow sad statement, as all bad news does. "I have to stay late tonight, but I promise I'll be there by the time you get back". I'd never say it, but I knew when she says that that, its hardly ever true. We still had fun though. The two of us went out for lunch and had cheeseburgers and fries. I still remember how great that fake, rubbery cheese use to taste. After, we went to the movies. 

I can't for the life of me remember what we saw but it was funny. The movie was ok, but what made it a real gut buster was how my dad over thought the whole thing, making comments on possible plot twists and plugging in extra lines in imitations of the cartoon characters. All the kids, and some parents next to us, were busting up, making the theater a madhouse of giggles. At the movies end, a lot of adults talked with my dad, shook hands and took pictures. I knew that he was funny and he says that that’s what he does for money, but again this had no concept past parent career day victory. Yes, it’s a competition. When I finally stood up to leave, my legs wobbled when I tried to walk. He chalked this up to me being tired, excused himself from the crowd and scooped me up, carrying me out to the car. 

A few days of wobbling, tripping and generally sucking at standing, later, I was sitting on a cushioned table with crinkly paper over the top, in the back room of the doctor's office. My mom sat in a chair next to me looking worried about something, but she always looked worried, so it wasn't anything new. The doctor did the usual tests, with the tiny rubber hammer and the cold stethoscope. I didn't understand what any of it meant, but he started looking like an old paper bag by the end, with crisscrossed lines everywhere. This was the first of three doctors that had no idea what was wrong. Then there was one that thought that he did. I wasn't allowed to go in with them, so I sat and read a book.

After him, there were more, but they weren’t called doctors, I knew they were, but they said they were called special lists. This meant as much to me as the private school, nothing. What I did understand is that their tests weren't as easy as the doctor's and they wouldn't be short.

They still had the tinny hammers and the stethoscopes, or so they said, but I didn't see them, so I figured they were lying. What they did have were long sharp needles and sticky pads and X-rays, whatever those are. They had big machines that had small spaces to lay in and be very still while they made scary sounds. They had gasses that made you sleep and wake up with stitches that hurt for days and clip boards that were covered in big words like Myelography that they explained with other big words. But not everything was bad, they brought me food in bed with Jello, and the nurses would sneak two extras in for me and I got to wear a cool dress that you’re supposed to wear backwards, with the buttons on the back. My dad and I joked about this, saying that they were terrible at making dresses, and that they ought to know that the buttons need to be in front, but mom didn't think it was funny. She would just cover her face with her hand and nod. 

It seemed like forever, but it was only two days at the most per visit and lots of time between them. What really made this it worse was that I didn't go to school anymore, but still had homework that I was never allowed to ignore, even when the medicine made me too tired to focus. My mom kept me on track with my classmates. "Study! Study! Study! So you can grow up to be the smart and happy, Heather". I didn't care for her methods then, but what kid wants to study even on the best of days?

All of this was just five long weeks. Along with the hospital, we went to physical therapists that gave me things to do, like stretches and exercises. They aren't fun, but they seem like they should be easy even though they aren't. That’s how I spent what I thought to me most of my time during the day, school studies, exercise, but honestly those only lasted at most four hours, which was mostly me dragging my feet, both literally and metaphorically through the exercises and the school work. Most of the time was actually spent with my mom and dad doing fun activities, or staying home watching cartoons and playing videogames. I started leaning away from the educational games and simple cartoons, and more toward RPGs and MMOs and anime. I'd spend long nights roaming through frosty landscapes, shouting at dragons and fighting off blue clad rebels in my dad's favorite game.

Just like that a year passed, with study, exercise, cartoons and late nights of virtual bad-assery. Then we went to the specialist's office, I figured out what they were called on my own, again so they could tell us what the tests showed. The man behind the desk looks old. His grey short hair makes a half ring around his head and his long beard goes down to his collar. Now, to get this you'd have to know that most old people scare me, even today. He however looked like a Gandalf, though to say this outloads would be to die of childish embarrassment. How could I be afraid of Gandalf? It didn't hurt that there was a jar of suckers on his desk. We sat in the chairs, me on my dad's lap and my mom to my left, and he spoke in the same voice I expected, deep and wise, 

"We have good news, and bad news. We've determined that the chances of her condition being... ah, fatal, are slim to none. Like I told you before all of this, ALS was the big fear, and one that we can cross off for sure. She can expect to live a life of average length. I can't promise more than that". My dad hugged me tight before speaking, "Thank you doctor, I... I can't tell you how hap...”, then doctor coughed, not a cough that meant he was sick, or had a tickle in the back of his throat, but a cough that meant there was still bad news. "I'm sorry, but there is still the matter of what we determined the problem to be". My dad eases back into the chair and nods, signaling for him to continue. "We believe it’s a condition called spinal muscular atrophy, Type three to be specific. It’s a genetic disease that deteriorates motor functions, mainly in this case, the legs, though to a smaller degree her respiratory system. It can, in rare cases, cause her to lose control of her faculties. I don’t believe that this will be so in her case though, her upper body, aside from a slight difficulty with breathing and possible minor speech impediments, seems to be unaffected. It's likely that she'll have to use a wheelchair for the majority of her life".

This time my mother interrupted "Are there any treatments for it"? The doctor shifted in his seat uncomfortably "If there are, they aren't public. Though I would recommend a number of changes to both her schedule and your home, it's not my specialty, but making your home wheelchair accessible and providing her time to do physical exercise, to a reasonable extent, will lower her risk of injury and slow the muscle atrophy. I'd also advise you to see a physiotherapist to teach her a few respiratory exercises that will make chest infections more bearable, as they may happen later on, as well as a speech therapist. That said, you'll want to consult a professional care coordinator to set up a more solid plan for her". 

Most of this only registered with me after a few days, but just as he finished talking, he caught my attention by opening the lid to his candy jar and grabbing two suckers, one of which he tied to his beard, and then offered me the second. I accepted it thankfully, and looked quizzically at the one he had tied up. Seeing this, he grinned widely. "I'm saving this one for later". I hadn’t laughed so hard in days.

That's my childhood, a mix of visitors, instructors and people who generally tell me how to live day to day as well as private school. I wasn’t much for my peers, they all ran and played, laughed and skinned their knees, I could have played with them, they would have been nice if I tried, I think, but it just didn’t seem like fun anymore, so I would stay in and finish my homework so I could go right to the computer when I got home. There were good changes, and bad. I swam a lot, but I had to wear a bulky orange vest to keep my head above the water. I played a few alternative sports, but I'd always be the first to run out of breath. I had a dietary schedule, but most of the time I ignored it. More because it didn't include pancakes and it wasn't strict anyway. They also said Ice Cream was a bad idea, Ignored. One thing that didn't change much was my love for anime and video games. Though my care coordinator, the Overseer as I called her, was adamant that I should spend that time playing outside, or exercising, I chose to do what I want in my free time. That generally is dragon slaying, world domination and binge watching anime. 

I passed years like this, at first just walking slow, a cane by 9, then crutches at 11; finally I started needing a hand rolled wheelchair at 16. I've tried a few brands and styles of them, but my favorite, and current is simple, with a purple frame, black wheels, seat, rims, push handles and rings, as well as a number of bits and bobs that I stuck in the struts. I can walk, small distances if there’s something to hold onto, I stand well enough, if I can lean on a wall or rail and better than anything, I can swim, as long as I use a life preserver and a snorkel. Needless to say, I refuse to swim in public. With these years, my mom and I seemed to agree on less and less.

Fast forward two years and we come to my present; a senior in high school, dealing cards in the Aquarius casino and splitting rent with my two best friends in the world. This isn’t the story of why I emancipated myself, or why I couldn’t stand to live under constant control. This is the story of what I did after and this is where it starts.

Thalia and I were sat on the couch, controllers in hand, running through the jungles of Vietnam, trying to kill one another with rocket launchers, when Gale opened the front door holding giant 20 lbs. bags of rice. His big, stupid grin stretching from ear to ear he proudly announced “Praise me, for I’ve saved us all” in an ostentatious, voice. The game was forgotten in the torrent of laughter that followed. Once I’d calmed down enough to talk, barely, I asked him “What are we supposed to do with that it? I know I look like it, but I don’t like rice that much”. This brought the room back to hysteria. Self-discrimination always works. Gale fell over laughing, holding the stitch in his side and dropping the rice on himself. I was the first to stop, having to use the breathing exercises to avoid passing out, but they didn’t need to know that.

My deep, slow breathing wasn't missed by either of them, they knew I lost my breath easily and usually didn't question it anymore. Gale picked up the rice and carried it off to the kitchen, muttering something something about unappreciated efforts and the great power of rice, still chuckling. Thalia, wasn't even close to recovering, but she was trying, and failing, to suppress her snorting and laughing. Some might think its an incredibly awkward sound, but I can't imagine a more wonderful sound. 

She settled down when her controller buzzed, notifying us that she had been killed by the game's bots. I'd not died, as I'd been up in a tower gunning down the enemy with a sniper rifle, keeping a safe distance and using a suppressor as well as a Ghost perk made my kill:Death ratio always higher than Thalia's, but Gale is another story. When he played, he would always be on the enemy team, with two or three bots to 'help' him. We'd try our best to avoid him and take out the bots quietly, but I would never kill more than one before he'd killed both of us two or three times. We'd laugh and accuse him of cheating, but we knew he didn't need too. He'd see the ping on the radar, hunt us down and run directly to the opposite side of the map to catch us while we ran from spawn. Online, this would be maddening, but in person we couldn't help but laugh, adding to our distraction and death.

Hours later, maybe two, we put down our controllers and went to bed. Weekends were always the best, especially now that there wouldn't be anymore breaks till summer, and collage after that, but this weekend had been especially good. Pancakes for breakfast, fat free for me with low sugar syrup and not-butter-butter, work for most of the day and well up till ten when my shift ended, then video games with the cute... er... nicest people I've ever known, till twelve. Now I'm alone again, writing this, to keep my mind off of her, but I know its pointless. Thalia's pale soft skin, navy blue eyes and her jet black hair keep my mind enraptured.

We met freshman year. She and Gale had been, and are, together since before elementary school, but I just moved into the area after... doesn't matter. The first time I went to the mall in the new area, I was living off of savings and begging for jobs at, just about anywhere I could legally work. I'd just been to an interview in a store selling perfumed candles when I saw the hot topic on the second floor. I knew there was an elevator on the other end of the mall, but that was really far... and the escalator was right there... It took some doing, but I managed to get my wheelchair balances on the escalator, that is until the left wheel slipped. I, being only around seventy or eighty pounds, was tossed out of it as it tipped. I remember closing my eyes, falling, letting out a high pitch yelp, rolling for a second or two, then stopping on something soft, not squishy, but defiantly not hard like I expected. 

I looked up to see her, a girl that I had two classes with holding me. Blood immediately burned under the skin in my cheeks, as I stammered a chain of thanks apologies and nonsense. By the point I thanked the icy blue eyes guy that had caught my wheelchair we were at the top of the escalator. What really got my attention about him was his hair. He kept in close cut, about two inches on top and maybe an inch and a half on the sides. His hair was as white as her hair was black, that is to say absolutely. He was tall, and clearly athletically built, I could see that much even through his loose fitting blue T-shirt and jeans, but not largely so. She was around two inches shorter and obviously not in bad shape, though not like him. Her hair was in a short bob cut at the time, framing her heart shaped face. As it turned out, they were headed to hot topic too. From that day forward, the three of us were inseparable, me being the... oh gods... the third through sixth wheels. Its still pretty great having friends at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to add that I am not the main character in anyway and that this piece is entirely fictional. Heather and myself could not be more different in sexuality, appearance, physiology, life philosophy and for a larger part gender. I made a near perfect opposite to myself to challenge my mind to see from another perspective. 
> 
> Work Cited page
> 
> "The ALS Association Certified Centers and Clinics." ALSA.org. The ALS Association, 2016. Web. 28 Mar. 2016.
> 
> “Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis.” Encyclopedia. Issues & Controversies. Infobase Learning, n.d. Web. 28 Mar. 2016. .
> 
> Bijon, Virginie. "My Personal Story with ALS - Virginie Bijon." My Personal Story with ALS. AMYOTROPHIC LATERAL SCLEROSIS SOCIETY OF CANADA, n.d. Web. 28 Mar. 2016.
> 
> Neuromuscular Conditions." Neuromuscular Conditions. Gillette Children’s Specialty Healthcare, n.d. Web. 28 Mar. 2016.
> 
> McKusick, Victor A., Iosif W. Lurie, Cassandra L. Kniffin, Marla J.F. O'Neill, Ada Hamosh, George E. Tiller, and Alopez. SPINAL MUSCULAR ATROPHY, TYPE III. Http://www.omim.org/entry/253400. Johns Hopkins University, 26 Feb. 1996. Web. 28 Mar. 2016. .
> 
> "Diseases - SMA - Diagnosis." Muscular Dystrophy Association. National Muscular Dystrophy Research Centre, 18 Dec. 2015. Web. 28 Mar. 2016. .


End file.
